An artist prepares by selecting his paints, his pencils in his studio. He chooses his subject, decides the perspective, the colors, the mood.
An author prepares by looking out a window.
A musician prepares by arranging his music sheets. He polishes his brass, tunes his strings. He plans the melodies, the lyrics, the chorus.
An author prepares by looking out a window.
A chef prepares by selecting his ingredients. He cuts, he mashes. He tests his spices, his vegetables, his meats
An author prepares by looking out a window.
This was an anecdote told to me by a writing teacher whom I admire greatly, but I always have wondered how true it really is. Certainly I can accomplish a great deal by simply staring out a window. I can dream up enchanting universes of magic, science, or both. I can imagine fields of green or chasms of fire. I can see into the infinite possibilities of creation and imagination, without lifting a finger, moving a muscle. But where does it truly lead?
If not for the toil of the artist, to master the human form, the bounty of the rainbow, and importance of a single, well meaning stroke of the pen, what end would art yield?
If not for the dedication of the musician, who dredges through the histories of Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, to understand the great majesty and power of a melody, a concert, an orchestra, how can we appreciate the magic of sound?
If not for the chef, who slaves over hot ovens, sharp blades, and limited space and time, how can we be delivered a journey through the senses of taste, sight and smell?
It is not until I sit down at my computer, my typewriter, my easel, my instrument, my kitchen, that I truly make my imagination come to life. No great idea came about from remaining an idea. It must be made real through the work of its creator. Just as the artist paints, the musician plays, and the chef cooks, the writer must write, or else there is no result, only a thought, lingering in the imagination, waiting to be free.